


I can feel your pulse in the pages

by scorpionbythesea



Series: Pretty spry for older guys [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pre!Serum Steve, could be read as just friendship or more than that, its ok steve i'd stare at bucky too, pre- movie events, steve's trying to do art and bucky's just not having it, these idiots i s2g
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:32:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpionbythesea/pseuds/scorpionbythesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schmoopy lazing in the sun and faux-arguing.</p><p>It’s his duty as a budding artist to capture beautiful moments and bring them to life even on paper, and unsurprisingly, his sketchbook is mostly full of Bucky: the strands of his hair as he trimmed them and they floated down onto the floor, the curve of his bare feet as he lounged barefoot on the windowsill, the curl of his fingers around a cup of coffee, the bandages around his hand, the bruises on his knuckles, the crooked edge to his smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can feel your pulse in the pages

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this gifset: http://finchframe.tumblr.com/post/85823363983
> 
> Title from Poet by Bastille
> 
> Now with accompanying music mix!!!!!!: http://8tracks.com/kathystrange/i-can-feel-your-pulse-in-the-pages

Steve returns from his shift at the newspaper stand to find his apartment bathed in early evening sun, slanting in through the windows and painting the threadbare furniture in golden light. His place looks almost beautiful, like this, even with the peeling wallpaper and ratty carpet, and he crosses the small room to his bed, shrugs his jacket off as he sits down. He closes his eyes, tunes out the sound of children shrieking outside, of the couple living upstairs arguing and focuses on his breathing, lets the sun warm his feet as he breathes in deep. He tastes cigarette smoke and opens his eyes with a smile, hanging his coat up by the door before looking over at his couch. It’s turned to the window, so all he sees is a hand resting against the back of it, fingers curled loosely around a cigarette stub and feet hanging off the edge. Bucky’s rough worker boots are lying on the floor in a tangle with his coat and Steve can just imagine him coming in and dropping himself onto the too-small couch. Steve locates his sketchbook and the nearest pencil stub and crosses the small room in a few strides, pausing to look down at the sight before him.

Bucky is sprawled on the couch, eyes closed and face completely relaxed as he basks in the warmth of the sun. If Steve thought that his room looked almost beautiful in the afternoon sun, then it’s nothing compared to the sight of Bucky lying there. It makes Steve smile, and he’s glad Bucky has his eyes closed, else he’d see Steve’s dopey expression, and Steve isn’t a young and giddy, completely infatuated schoolgirl, he’s just keenly aware of the strong lines of Bucky’s face; of the shadows that the light slanting in creates, painting his cheekbones even more starkly visible, illuminating the laughter lines around his mouth, the small scar on his temple, the smattering of stubble.

Steve commits it all to memory, thinks of the best method to transfer the scene before him onto paper, because he needs to do a sight like this justice. It’s his duty as a budding artist to capture beautiful moments and bring them to life even on paper, and unsurprisingly, his sketchbook is mostly full of Bucky: the strands of his hair as he trimmed them and they floated down onto the floor, the curve of his bare feet as he lounged barefoot on the windowsill, the curl of his fingers around a cup of coffee, the bandages around his hand, the bruises on his knuckles, the crooked edge to his smile.

Bucky’s fingers twitch and he lifts his hand slowly to his lips, takes a deep drag of the cigarette, eyes still closed. There’s a beat where time seems to stop before he parts his lips, lets the smoke curl out of his mouth, chases the taste with his tongue. “Quit starin’ “, he says, and his voice is as warm as the rays of sun, “and get down here, Rogers.”

“I’m not staring,” Steve retorts, rounding the couch and swatting at Bucky’s feet. “I’m observing. There’s a difference.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, “an’ what’re you observing right now?”  
“You’re gonna burn a hole in my couch with that stub if you fall back asleep, is what I’m observing.”  
Bucky makes a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, cracks an eye open to demonstrate his point and smiles. “I’m not sleepin’, I was waiting for you to get back from work.”  
“You’re snoozing in the sun like that tom across the yard always does,” Steve replies, swatting at Bucky’s feet again. “An’ you’re taking up as much space as he does, so budge up.”

Bucky squints at Steve holding his sketchbook, before closing his eyes again and shifting his legs up, resting them at an angle against the back of the couch, before gesturing lazily at the empty space. “He’s a pretty Tommie cat though, isn’t he? You ever draw him? Though of course,” and here he starts grinning, “he don’t look as good as me lounging in the sun.”

Steve laughs, folds himself comfortably onto the couch and plucks the cigarette stub from Bucky’s hand, ignoring his feeble noise of protest as he drops it into the coffee cup on the small table. “Sure, Buck,” he says, “you’re the prettiest tomcat in all of Brooklyn. No question. Now go back to sleep, I didn’t want to disturb you.”  
Bucky snorts inelegantly, even as he settles back further, nestling his head deeper into the cushions. It exposes the long line of his neck even more and Steve lets the pencil glide over the paper, maps out the angle of the shirt collar sticking up, the shadow beneath his chin, the barely visible indent of clavicle. Bucky parts his lips again slightly, breath already evening back out before his eyes flutter and he frowns slightly. “Christ, Steve,” he says, “you’re too good, you know that? I crashed your place and fell onto your couch and you’re the one sayin’ you didn’t want to disturb me. An’ I wasn’t sleeping” he adds mulishly, “I was just resting my eyes.”  
“And I wasn’t staring,” Steve says simply, shrugging, “semantics. Now if you don’t shut up, I’ll draw you as that tomcat, whiskers and all.”

“Punk,” Bucky mumbles sleepily, “though I bet you could make it work for me, somehow. Would it be a good look d’you think?”

“I think,” Steve says quietly, “you have a good look no matter what, Buck. I don’t need to do anything to help you with that.”  
Bucky smiles softly, nudges at Steve’s leg with his foot as he opens his eyes back up slowly, gazes at him from the other end of the couch. “What’d I say?” he murmurs fondly, “you’re too good, Steve. Someday, everyone’ll see it and I’ll hafta hold adoring crowds off you. Saint Steve, you’ll be.” He smiles wider as Steve fidgets, ears going red.

“I don’t need a crowd of admirers,” Steve says, rolling his eyes at the thought. “I’m alright with just you, even though you’re a jerk.”

“Actually,” Bucky admits, “I was hopin’ you’d say that.” He stretches; jaw cracking as he yawns before he smirks at Steve. “Now, what do I gotta do to shut you up? I’m trying to sleep, you know.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much to people for reading my stuff, it's super nice, hope you're enjoying the random things i post!  
> <3
> 
> (It's happened so often that me and kate have proper analytical conversations about sebastian/ bucky/ sebastians face) (this one started off with a "oh my god he looks like he could be in a painting or a statue, he looks like a grecian god hewn from marble, look at the way it all lines up, the symmetry of his face oh god oh god o h go d")


End file.
